Spider
by Chromatoast
Summary: An isolated, abandoned camp site, a small town full of pretty girls, and his daddy's van.. Steven couldn't ask for much more. He gets it, though, in the form of a highly opinionated mute monster with a machete. M for language, bromance, heavy gore. A gory and obscene Friday the 13th / Alice Cooper crossover, inspired by chemx and Cooper's "Along Came A Spider" album (2010).
1. Chance Meeting

She pushed one lacquered thumbnail into the button, again and again, struggling to see over the top of the bags in her arms.

She stumbled over the curb, twisting her ankle, and caught herself from falling at the last moment. Bags and boxes spilled out into the valet lane, skidding across the thin patches of black ice she saw glistening under the streetlamps. Darlene wobbled to her feet, checking her heels, one hand fixing her hair, scanning the doorway to make sure no one saw.

No. It was empty. The mall food court grew darker as she watched. Except for the employees, she might be the last one out.

She crouched on her haunches, gathering the bags and boxes, cursing at the mud on their crumpled edges, cursing as her manicured nails dragged over the asphalt. Leaning too far, her knee hit the pavement, and she recoiled with a hiss. Mud and sooty black grit on her new pale stockings. So much for going home and passing out; now there would be laundry, too.

The boxes teetered in their bags beside her, and Darlene stood, smoothing her skirt down the front and over her broad hips. _Keys_, she thought, touching her purse, looking down at the bags, trying to stem the rising tide of panic within. _Where the fuck are the keys?_

In the parking lot, a streetlamp flickered; a car door slammed; she startled at a loose flyer blown by the wind.

She stared down at the valet lane, searching every reflecting bit of light, every sharp glimmer that caught her eye. Patches of ice, snow melting into pools, shards of broken glass. No keys.

Again she touched her purse and briefly fingered through it, guessing at each item by touch. Lipstick, tissues, receipts, credit cards. Buttons. Lint. Breath mints.

"God damn it," she hissed, looking out at the parking lot, at the sky above, grim and black, glowing blue where it met the tops of the telephone poles.

A semi roared through the intersection at the corner. It looked so far away.

She realized she couldn't even see her car. She'd been pushing the damn button to find it. Just bought it a month ago, and all she really knew about it was that it was blue and it had good speakers.

She cursed again, startling herself with the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. She wrestled with the panic for a long moment.

_It's okay, Darlie. It's okay. You're going to find the car, and the keys have to be here somewhere, right? You just had them a moment ago. Look again. Slow down. It's okay._

And if you can't find the keys..

.. you'll be stranded, lost, raped, murdered

, screamed the panicky voice in the back of her head.

_.. there's a bus stop at the intersection. Just walk up there and take the bus. It's okay._

"It's okay," she said, nodding, and got down on her knees to inspect the valet lane a second time.

Darlie ran her hands over the rough gravel, scouring the surface of the asphalt with her palms. She caught a small shard of broken glass and pulled her hand back, hissing. The diamantine chip was too small for her to grasp; her efforts just drove it deeper under her skin, blood welling around it. She leaned forward again on the opposite palm. Dusting her fingers over a patch of ice and slimy grit, she felt and heard the cold metallic O-ring that held her keys. They'd fallen into one of the half-melted puddles, hidden by a thin sheet of ice and oil.

She pulled the keys into her palm and stood, shivering. For a moment she looked at her hands - one covered in greyish slime and oil, the other with a spidery blotch of blood spreading from the heel - then hefted the bags into her arms and marched towards the parking lot, massaging the lock / unlock button on the keychain.

Panic hit her in one brief, cold spike as she crossed the empty driving lane beyond the valet parking area. Wind whistled down the corridor. Cars moved sluggishly through the intersection at its far end. Glancing to each side, she strode across the lane with more confidence than she felt.

She spotted a blue car, four spaces down. Distracted by her excitement, she slammed her hip into the trunk of an old rustbucket parked at an angle. As she got closer, she discovered the car she'd thought to be hers was actually a black coupe, too small to be hers.

Darlene pushed the button, leaning back to adjust the boxes clutched to her chest, aware of the faint smell of her own blood as it smeared across the packaging and the sensation of oil on her other hand.

_Find the car,_ she thought, desperate. _Go home. Take a nice long hot shower. Finish the Merlot. Try on the sexy powder-blue blouse from Marshall's.._

Click, click, click, went the button under her thumb, and in the distance, three rows away and five spaces closer to the road, she saw the repetitive flicker of answering headlights.

Darlene stumbled and caught herself, hurrying, continuing to push the button so she could track her progress. Four spaces. Three.

A tall, gaunt man in a wrinkled white dress shirt stepped out from around the back of his van, arms laden with bags. They made identical small sounds of surprise as they narrowly avoided a collision. The man laughed; he had long, thick dark hair that framed his face in waves, and a prominent nose.

"Gosh," he said, his voice surprising her with its thin, nasal, almost feminine tone. "I am so sorry, miss."

"It's.." Darlene wobbled, adjusting her packages with the heel of her bloody hand. She forced a tiny smile for politeness' sake. "It's all right, really. Sorry about that." She hurried to step around him, but he stepped in front of her, offering a shy grin.

"It's just," he said, his expression so intensely apologetic she almost felt embarrassed, "my arms are full, and I've dropped my keys. Would you mind helping me get my things into my van?"

She stepped back, surveying him. They were about the same height; she probably weighed more than he did. He had such a cheerful smile, his dark eyes twinkling.

And his van, with its rusty bumper, had no windows.

And the bags in his arms, like his shirt, were wrinkled and well-worn, not freshly unfolded from a firm-pressed stack by the cashier counter.

"Um," she said, taking another step back, the polite smile now frozen on her face as she prayed panic didn't show in her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I'm in a hurry, I really can't.."

"Oh," he said, his voice dropping into a gravelly tenor, eyes darkening as the twinkle died. "Well. Another time, perhaps."

She nodded, not sure what she was agreeing to, and hurried past the large red van, weaving through the row. She glanced back over her shoulder once before hurrying to her little blue sedan. He was still standing there, arms full, watching her, with that curious smile now lopsided on his face.


	2. Never Alone

The shower could not be hot enough. She watched the steam billow upwards, clouding the tiny bathroom window. Shedding her stockings and underpants, she stepped under the water, hissing as it struck her skin and sent shivers down her spine, into her thighs.

She put her hands in her hair, massaging the hot water into her scalp until her long brown hair was soaked and clung to her neck in tight curls. Squirting a palmful of shampoo, Darlene worked the sweet-smelling gel into her hair, allowing the burning water to beat down on her back as she pulled the shampoo through her hair, creating spiky heaps of bubbles.

She heard a thud, then loud scampering: Matzoh in the hallway. Damn cat had probably knocked the fern over again. She frowned at the shower curtain, wondering if she'd remembered to lock the bathroom door. Just in case. She held still, listening. The apartment remained ominously silent - what she could hear of it over the pounding water and dull roar of the bathroom fan. After another long moment, she shrugged, deciding it was nothing after all, and ducked under the hot water to rinse her hair.

Sliding her hands slick with conditioner through her hair, she found herself thinking of the strange man in the mall parking lot. He'd seemed so nice, but that van was definitely a molestor-mobile.

She shivered as her thoughts wandered to what might have happened if she hadn't gotten away. What if he'd shoved her into that van and slammed the door? Darlene's injured hand stung as she squeezed the loofah, scrubbing raspberry-scented shower gel across her torso. _Rape,_ she thought, and felt her body respond with a shudder and a clench.

Once, in her teens, a date had locked the car doors and forcefully made out with her for half an hour. She refused to go any further; he threatened; she hit him in the face. He drove her home in a sullen silence. Even though she knew she had narrowly escaped a date rape scenario, that half-hour of desperate passionate groping still fueled most of her sexual fantasies. Sometimes it was nice to feel wanted, helpless to refuse, helpless to resist.

She had dated a man three years ago who kept a pair of handcuffs on his nightstand. When she asked about them, he told her she wasn't ready. She went out with him twice more before deciding he wasn't worth the effort, either. Those handcuffs were too tempting, she decided. That wasn't what proper young women wanted from their men. Right?

For a brief moment, loofah forgotten at her shoulder, soap sliding off under the stream of steaming water, Darlene imagined how the stranger's hands would feel on her body, pulling her close. Those dark, mysterious eyes, searching her own. His mouth on her neck, her jaw, her own mouth, insistent and hungry.

She imagined herself shoved into the van, his body framed in the doorway. She closed her eyes, trying to construct the fantasy from remembered incidents in her own past: being held down as he grappled with his pants; the sharp pain and sudden fullness of penetration; his eyes, locked on hers, wanting to see her reaction, wanting her to see his own.

She shuddered, shaking her head. _Sick_, she thought, returning to washing her body, ashamed. If he'd caught her today, it would have been the first sexual contact in two and a half years; no wonder rape sounded good at this point.

_You're sick, Darlene. Just plain sick._

She rinsed her hair, trying to ignore the growing sense of loneliness, and stepped from the bathroom wrapped in pale green towels.

She peered into the dark living room. The fern still stood on its table by the television, undisturbed. Matzoh's glittering stare was nowhere to be seen. She'd fed him when she arrived home; his food bowl sat, half-full and neglected, by the kitchen island.

Darlene walked to her bedroom, switching on the light, and heard a car alarm scream below her window.

She clutched the towel before it could drop, and peered through the window blinds.

A cold rain pissed down on the parking lot; the greasy pavement glittered with ice and raindrops, empty. The two streetlamps nearest her building were dead, creating a vast pool of shimmering darkness in the space between the lot's entryway and the next building, across the main road.

Reflected in the rain and ice, her car blared its complaint into the night, lights flashing.

Darlene swore, pulling the towel a little closer, and stepped away from the window.

She pulled a pair of yoga pants from the dresser, stepping into them, and snatched up her hoodie from the nightstand. Barefoot, she hurried out the door, keys clutched in her hand.


	3. A Voice in the Darkness

The steps were cold and slippery beneath the soles of her feet. She caught herself on the railing at the bottom, scanning the dark sidewalk while the car continued to scream to itself.

She stepped into the rain, pulling her elbows in as the cold spray struck her, and held out her keys. The car looked fine, undamaged, that is, but it was hard to tell with the lack of light and all the tiny reflections from the pavement and the falling rain. She pushed the button. The blaring continued. She pushed it again, feeling her scalp go cold under the weight of her re-soaked hair, shivering. The lights in the car flickered once, and it honked.

She stood on the sidewalk, looking around. What had set off the alarm, anyhow? The lot was silent and motionless. It was late; most residents were asleep by now. When she'd parked, she'd taken the only spot left on the near side of the lot; it couldn't have been a car bumping her own. She peered down at the main road, but there was no traffic. No vibrations to trigger the alarm.

Her eyes scanned the parking lot, squinting into the darkness.

There was a red van parked beneath the dead streetlamp near the entryway.

She felt her hand clench around the keys, and looked back up the steps, towards her apartment.

He'd followed her. He had followed her home. Now he knew where she lived.

She couldn't go inside. He'd follow. Wouldn't he?

Was he already there? Was the car alarm a lure to get her out of the apartment, giving him time to prepare for her return?

She spun the keys out of her palm, unlocking the car with a too-loud honk and a flash of the headlights. She popped the door and slid inside, closing it softly, and sat in the darkness listening to herself breathe.

It couldn't be the same van. Could it?

She glanced out the side window. Yes.. she could see the rusty bumper, the scratches on the back, the badly removed paint on one side. A shudder racked her body as she plugged the keys into the ignition and revved the engine.


	4. Found You

She cruised out of the lot with the headlights off, and took a left on the main road. She didn't turn the lights on until she could see the lights of the intersection up ahead.

She winced as, behind her, the van's brights kicked on as well.

Darlene started to pant, heart racing. Her palms felt slick on the wheel. She sat up, hunched over it, staring at the traffic light.

The radio clock said it was after eleven p.m. already.

When the light turned green, she gunned the engine, frightening the driver whose tail she rode. She took a sharp right through the intersection and shot up North Road, watching the red van lumber around the corner and cruise after her. It didn't matter if she got pulled over. That would be a lucky break, under the circumstances.

The glowing white and blue sign for the Parkview Plaza crested the hill, and she swerved into the right lane, cutting off a couple of college kids in a red sportster. They zoomed around her, shouting obscenities, as she turned into the Plaza parking lot, shot her car into the shadowed spot to the immediate left of the Price Chopper, and killed the engine.

Darlene slouched down in her seat, panting, staring at the rear view mirror.

The red van rolled into view at a leisurely pace, coming down the hill, headed for the CVS in the Plaza corner.

She watched as the van turned sharply and paused, sputtering. The driver side window was rolled down; one arm, the white dress sleeve rolled just below the elbow, hung over the lip of the door. In the darkness of the cab, she imagined she could see his glittering eyes scanning the lot, hunting her. Despite the fact that she was legitimately terrified, she felt the same shiver and clench of response between her legs.

The van coughed and grumbled, cruising to the other end of the Plaza, and she nudged the door open and ran into the store.

She went to the Customer Service desk first, but decided it was a bad idea after standing in line for a moment. Too obvious, too close to the front.

Darlene hurried through closed cashier lines, heading for the back of the store, looking for an employee. She found a pimple-faced young man stocking jars in the baby food aisle, and knelt down next to him, startling him.

"I need your help," she said, watching the other end of the aisle.

"What can I do for you?" said the stockboy, polite despite his obvious discomfort.

"You need to call the cops. I'm being followed. I was.. I was followed here by a man I met earlier today."

He paused, setting down his pricing gun, and scratched his head. "How do you know you were followed?"

"What do you mean, how do I know? I know, okay? I saw him follow me in here."

The stockboy turned, peering at the far end of the aisle, paranoid. "What's he look like?"

"He's.. he's about five foot eight, skinny, uh, he's got long black hair and a, kind of a big nose." She scowled at the stockboy. "What?"

"Nothing, he just.. doesn't sound.." The young man got to his feet, his expression serious. "I'll get my manager, okay? Why don't you come wait by the delivery bay doors."

She followed him to the back of the store and stood beside the big green double doors by the butcher's counter, shivering. Her hoodie had gotten soaked while she stood in the parking lot, and her yoga pants were too thin to wear anywhere near air conditioning. She knew she looked awful - stringy soaked hair, nipples and camel toe, panicked and pale - but it didn't matter. None of it mattered right now.

The double doors swung open, thumping into her elbow, just as she saw him walking past the deli meats in his wrinkled white shirt. She stumbled back into the manager, who gave her a falsely cheerful smile and said, "Now, what seems to be the problem, miss?"

"Did you call the cops," she said in a whisper, not taking her eyes off the man advancing down the aisle.

"Well," said the manager, and she knew from his hesitation that he hadn't, they didn't take her seriously, and why should they? She looked insane. She cringed back against the manager's round stomach as the stranger came closer.. but he was ignoring her; she was less important than the bacon in the deli meats cooler.

Over the loudspeaker, a cashier announced the store would be closed in ten minutes.

"That's him," she said. "He's been stalking me since earlier tonight. I want you to call the cops, please."

The manager nodded as the lights overhead went dim. "I've called the cops. Would you like to wait for them outside?"

She gave him an incredulous look.

"It's just that.. the store is closing," he said, sheepish.

"Can I wait here?"

"No, I'm sorry. We can't have anyone in the store after hours who is not an employee."

Darlene frowned at him. "I'm afraid for my life, and you're telling me to wait outside?"

"Well.. yes."

She watched the stranger select a package of bacon and walk up the aisle with it, humming. "I am not going anywhere."

The manager's round face hardened into a scowl. "Then when the cops show up, I'll just have them throw you out."

"Fine. I don't think you called them anyways."

The two of them glared at one another, until the manager turned and walked back through the double doors.


	5. Rescue

Darlene held herself, rubbing her arms. The light overhead flickered and buzzed. She wanted to see if the stranger had left the store yet, but she didn't dare look for him.

Over the loudspeaker, a second cashier repeated the store would be closing, now in five minutes. "Please bring all purchases to the front."

She felt a tiny spark of hope within. He was buying bacon, wasn't he? So he'd have to be..

_You idiot_, her brain said, and she frowned to herself. _He was only looking there so you would SEE him. He knows where you are now, and he wants you to know he knows._

He wants to know you're scared.

Darlene scoffed, straightening against the cold tile wall. Sure, she was scared. He wouldn't get the satisfaction of knowing it, though.

Feeling brave, she peeked down the nearest aisle. An old man shuffled along rows of cereal boxes, hunched over the handle of his shopping cart; she could see, beyond him, the two open cashier lanes, full of annoyed-looking people with last-minute purchases. Milk. Condoms. Oatmeal. Toilet paper. A wobbly tower of chocolate bars.

In the second cashier lane, a gloved hand ran leather fingertips down the rack of treats, searching. Her heart thudded: those were his gloves. A uniformed cop walked around the outer edge of the cashier area, his expression of annoyance trumping those of the startled shoppers waiting in line, who jostled and muttered to one another.

Darlene held her breath, waiting. The cop disappeared around the end of the aisle; she stepped in front of the double doors, watching as he walked towards her, and their eyes met for a brief moment. His expression soured, and she felt a sinking sensation inside. The manager had called the cops after all, but not as she'd hoped.

"It's okay," she said as the cop reached her. "I'll go. I don't want to put up a fight. But, um.. will you walk outside with me?"

He frowned, passing through the double doors beside her. He returned after a few minutes, trailed by the manager, who jabbed a thick finger at Darlene.

"You might wanna take her down to the station. I think she might be on drugs or something. Came in here, ranting about someone following her.. I don't know, maybe it's a hallucination?"

She folded her arms over her chest, waiting.

"All right, all right," the cop said, holding up his hands, and the manager's rant slowed to an end. The cop turned to Darlene. "Are you ready to leave now, miss?"

"Sure. Just please walk me to my car. It's right outside, by the tree on the left side. It's not far." She looked at the manager, his face pinched in anger. At least he'd called the cops. "Thank you for your help, sir."


	6. Caught in the Web

Walking out into the parking lot with the officer at her side, Darlene marveled at how surreal everything felt. The night struck her as eerily silent. Her car sat waiting by the tree, the door still ajar, keys in the ignition.

"You're lucky nobody stole it," said the cop, and under the words she sensed the thought "you moron".

She glanced around the lot, searching for the big red van. "Do you see a red van anywhere?"

"Is that the guy who followed you?" He turned, searching the lot, covering his eyes from the glare of the sign overhead. "Did you get a license plate number?"

"No."

"What happened, anyways?"

She shrugged, quickly recounting the evening's events, and watched as the officer scanned the parking lot a second time, scowling.

"Well," the officer said, standing back, "I don't see his vehicle. Do you think you're okay to drive home?"

Darlene considered, and realized to her surprise that she did actually feel safer. Now, it seemed it had all been a bad dream, or an over-reaction. She pulled the door open a bit more. "Yes, I think so. Thank you so much, officer."

"No problem." Drawing out a thick wallet attached to his uniform by a chain, he removed a card and handed it to her. "If you see this guy or his vehicle again, call me, okay?"

"Sure. Thanks again." She watched him walk back to his patrol car, parked on the side of the lot opposite her own, and waved as he left the lot.

She had one foot in the car when she felt her head pulled back by the hair. She caught a flash of white and the matte reflection of the sign's lettering on one black leather glove before being dragged, one hand over her mouth, into the darkness beside and then behind the store.

She kicked and grasped for a handhold. Slim branches broke off in her hands; he didn't react as he was struck. She punched and pulled at him. She tried to bite his hand, and he reacted by shoving his hand harder against her mouth, pushing her head back into his grasp.

"Bad girl," he grunted, slamming her into the side of the van before kneeing her once in the stomach. She gasped, bending double. She could see, behind the van and several yards of asphalt away, the brick sides of the Episcopal church bathed in yellow light from a streetlamp. "No biting."

She heard the side door roll open, felt his gloved hands on her arms, pulling her up. She felt sick and confused, unable to react. It occurred to her she might be going into shock. She had no idea what that was like.

He squatted down, lifting her in his arms as if she were a child, and shoved her into the van. She regained some of her senses and tried to kick him in the face before the door slid shut. He caught her foot, laughing, rolling back with the impact. Infuriated, she tried to kick him again, writhing on the floor of the van. He pulled a length of chain from inside the door, slipping her foot into the shackle as she kicked. Cold, heavy steel weighed her leg down to the van floor. He blew a kiss, shoving her other foot back inside, taking hold of the door. She tried one last time to strike him before he closed her in darkness. Her heel slammed into the inside of the door, sending shocks up her leg and through her body, intensifying the pain in her back and stomach.

She heard and felt the van shudder as he climbed into the driver's seat, slamming the door. The engine rumbled to life. She watched him adjust the rear view mirror with one gloved hand. He smiled to himself, eyeing her reflection, and spun the wheel in his hands. The van roared and thumped over the lumpy pavement, rolling out onto the main road.

"Look," she said, and shouted it a second time to be heard over the vehicle's noisy engine, "I have money, okay? And.. and I have friends. They'll notice I'm missing."

His eyes flickered to her in the mirror, then away. She could see the crease of his face as he smirked. It sent a shiver of panic through her.

"These friends?" Reaching into a small cardboard box on the passenger seat, he tossed a handful of glittering items into the back of the van. A gold watch struck her in the face; she touched the others as they shook on the floor: a pearl bracelet, a St. Christopher medallion.

The gold watch was Milo's prize possession, a gift from his boss and a reward for his hard work over the past five years at the firm. The medallion she knew belonged to her cousin, Julia. They'd gone to the mall last weekend. She was supposed to be in Florida for a golf tournament. The pearl bracelet took her a long moment. He noticed her staring at it and laughed to himself.

"Smart little blonde," he said, and she recognized it - Georgine, a co-worker who had quit without notice a week ago. She just stopped showing up.

Darlene gaped at his face in the mirror, prompting another wicked laugh.

"Don't worry." He shifted; the van roared through an intersection on a yellow light, bathing the dash in a brief amber glow. "Your end won't be as quick or as messy as theirs."

She gathered the jewelery into her fist and threw it at him, screaming in rage. The watch struck the side of his headrest. He didn't flinch, just rolled his head back and laughed, as if they were friends sharing a hilarious joke.


	7. Tracking Darlene

The officer stood, turning towards him. "This is exactly how you found her car? You didn't touch it?"

The manager shook his head, hands twisted across his fat belly. "No, sir."

"And you didn't witness anything outside the store?"

"No. But I thought it was odd.. you know, considering the state she was in, inside the store, and.."

The officer nodded, shining his flashlight towards their shoes in the wet pavement. He moved it in a line up the hill behind the store. "You stayed with the car after calling the police, right?"

"Yes. Why?"

He swung the flashlight in a slow arc, illuminating a path from her open car door up the gentle slope. The manager, squinting, could see a furrow in the dirt and dead leaves. "Was this here earlier tonight?"

"To be honest, I don't know. I didn't see it. But I haven't left this spot since I called."

"Okay." The officer took a few steps towards the back of the store, then turned, shining his flashlight up the hill.

"What is it?"

He raised his eyebrows at the middle-aged manager, returning to his side. "Looks like a drag trail. Looks like she was grabbed right here, as she got into the car, and then - " he motioned up the slope - "pulled or dragged up the hill. I'm going to radio for some backup, get some pictures taken. Could you give me a list of other people who had contact with this woman in your store tonight?"


	8. Homecoming

Darlene screamed until she was hoarse. It began as an attempt to distract him while he drove. The further they got into the woods, though, the more amused and giddy he became. When they passed under the archway and drove alongside the glimmering lake, he screamed back at her, matching her decibel for decibel, his smile huge.

He slammed on the brakes, and she slid forward on the cold metal, her head thumping into the base of his seat. The door slammed behind him; the side door rumbled open, and she looked out at the silky moonlit surface of the lake, puzzled. He climbed into the doorway, his slender frame illuminated from behind. She pressed herself to the far wall, curled into a ball, and he grabbed her free ankle out from under her, dragging her across the van floor.

Sitting on her free leg in the doorway, he ran both hands up her right leg. His touch was smooth and gentle. She watched, ignored, as he traced around her kneecap with a fingertip, stroking the slope of her calf. He seized her ankle in his hands and unclasped the shackle, tossing it aside. He pulled off one glove with his teeth, dropping it onto the gravel over his shoulder, and resumed stroking the length of her leg. It tickled, but his intensity struck her somewhere between amusement and panic.

"What are you," she said, her voice rasping and faint, trying to sound tough. "Some kind of leg fetishist?"

He turned to her, dark hair obscuring his face. His gloved hand left her leg, grasping her by the upper arm; he stood, pulling her from the confines of the van, and she stumbled on the dirt path, put off balance by his rough grip.

He pulled her close behind him and marched around the cooling front of the van, up several short and dilapidated stairs, three broad steps across a bowed wooden porch, and through a flimsy pine door into a mildewed living room.

It stank of damp and disuse. There was a sagging, heavily worn couch against the left-hand wall, a faded shade of burgundy red beneath the stains and tears. A small portable TV with rabbit ear antennae sat across from the couch, spun sideways, as if knocked aside in a hurry. A warped staircase, its carpet runner rotted to pieces, ran up the right-hand side of the room, leading into darkness. Faded photographs in sepia tones and certificates moldy with age covered the wall beside the stairs. Against the stairs, behind the TV, a sad pale bookshelf, its lower shelves collapsed, housed a few worn and bloated books of various sizes.

She saw the lake reflected in the window across the room; a screen door, nailed shut, beside it. He pulled her, stumbling, through the room and into a narrow hall behind the stairwell, through a combined kitchen and dining room, to a sturdy grey door padlocked shut under the stairs, where he pressed her up against the wall with his hands on her arms and locked his gaze on her own.

He smiled, surprising her with sudden, genuine charm. "I think you should be aware, if you, say, make a break for it, there's no one around for miles, and I won't have a problem hunting you down. Let's not do that."

It struck her as a challenge, or perhaps an offer. They stared at one another for a long moment. Without thinking whether she was playing into his hand or not, Darlene pulled away from the wall and dashed for the front door.

His boots thudded on the old wooden floor, shaking dust from the ceiling. She burst through the open door, out onto the porch, and slammed into the railing. Rotted from years of exposure, it gave way, crumbling beneath her weight, and she fell into the dirt a foot below, rolling.

He landed over her, a foot on either side of her torso, leather hands reaching down. She scrambled down, crawling away. His elbow struck her in the center of the back, knocking her onto her stomach; she tasted grass and earth, sputtering.

He locked his forearm at the base of her skull, pushing her face down, his other hand roving down to her waist. She heard the now-familiar throaty chuckle, felt his narrow chest against her back vibrate with the sound. His arm snaked under her belly, hoisting her hips into the air, and when he pressed against her, she realized the brief chase had done nothing to discourage him.

"Right here?" he said, grinding his hips against hers. "Where anyone could see us? Is it the lake or the moonlight, or just the fact that you like being treated like an animal?"

Her resolve broke. The conflict between body, brain, and self was too much. She didn't want him; she wanted him; she hated him; she was made of fear. What about tomorrow? Would she even be alive? If she let him in - and really, what choice did she have, alone here in the dark - he was not likely to be kind. It was unthinkable, really. Yet her stupid body wanted him, shivered against him in the damp night air, ached inside for his touch, while her brain tried to scream warnings through the confusion. This was the power of man: a woman's need.

He grunted to himself, lifting off of her. "Not here. What a romantic you turned out to be. No, I'm not one for outdoor sports."

One gloved hand reached down to her; she accepted it, and he pulled her to her feet. She stared at him, confused again by his smile, the twinkle in his eyes. "Why don't you come inside for a drink, darling?" Around her fingers, his hand tightened: there would be no argument.

"I want to go home."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Such a card," he said, and the tone of it warned her not to press her luck. For now, he was joking, friendly, sensual. If her antics became annoying, he could quickly change tactics and technique.

She wanted to cry. She allowed him to pull her into the cabin. She tried not to notice the wear pattern on the screen door, like claw marks. She stood beside the grey door, knowing the sound it made as the padlock's tumblers turned and his fingers separated the rusty plate from its hasp was the sound of her own destruction.


	9. Into Hell

At the base of the grey creaking stairs, a grey and lumpy mattress waited.

A long table against the wall, squeezed into the tiny space, held several clamp lights, an open toolbox, syringes, a jar with a crude skull-and-crossbones symbol scrawled onto it in Sharpie. Beneath the table, sparkling when he held the clamp light to them, she saw an assortment of bottles - clear to brown, the liquid inside clear, murky, bright green, sandy brown, amber, mahogany. Few of them had labels. Unlike the rest of the house, the bottles were dust-free.

Throughout the room, there was a pervasive stench.

She gulped the drink he offered. Twin tumblers, clean, waiting on the workbench. She drowned all the signs; she resigned herself to her fate.

When he kissed her, his mouth tasting of rum, biting hungrily at her lips and tongue, she recognized the part of the room's smell that didn't belong in an earth basement. It was the stench of old blood.

She didn't look at the mattress.

She remembered her tumbler dropping, shattering on the floor by her bare feet. Shards scattering light across the surfaces of the room. The vague realization that her drink had been spiked, followed by the sense she should feel troubled by this.

She remembered the sensation of the old mattress on her skin, gritty, knotted, rough. Like curled fists under the thin surface of a worn wool blanket.

His hands were warm and soft, large and strong. He knelt over her, breathing in her scent, removing her clothes with a delicacy she would not have guessed possible. He was savoring the moment. It occurred to her that he might not kill her, after all.

Then she caught sight of the tools laid out on the workbench beyond, and she knew she'd never go home again.

She remembered watching as he stood over her, unbuttoning his pants, one-handed. Confidence radiated from him. The slope of his narrow hips, the curve of his belly. She hadn't noticed how thin he was; his ribs stood out on his chest, each breath undisguised, keeping pace with her own. His dark eyes on hers.

She remembered feeling him kneel over her, the cold embrace of each metal cuff on her wrist, the wicked thrill coursing through her as he bit her flesh. Harder. Harder. Too hard.

She remembered the threads of panic spiraling up from her gut, knowing this was the choice she had made.

The moment when his teeth broke skin, his hands became claws and then fists, and she realized there were no brakes, there was no stopping now.

She remembered when she started to cry but not when she stopped.

She remembered nothing else but darkness, which is probably for the best.


End file.
